The White Lily

by Susanne Matthews

  Rob knocked on the first closed door and opened it.

  Special Agent Trevor Clark, task force leader, sat in a leather chair behind a massive oak desk. The man, broad shouldered with a headful of closely cropped, dark brown hair, looked up, took off his glasses, and rose to greet her. He held out his hand.

  “Agent Munroe, I’m sorry for the short notice. Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “Agent Clark,” she said, reaching for his hand, her ice-queen mask firmly in place now. “I’d say it hadn’t been a problem if I had any reason to believe I belonged here.”

  Rob cleared his throat. “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

  “No, stay. You might as well hear this now.”

  Trevor returned to his chair and indicated the one in front of his desk. Lilith sat, feeling like a delinquent child called into the principal’s office. Maybe she should try to curb the sarcasm and bitchiness. She had to work with these people whether she liked it or not.

  “Call me Trevor. We’re informal up here, more like family, considering what we’ve been through. I don’t blame you for being miffed about this cloak and dagger secrecy, but after what happened ... How much do you know about Garett Pierce?”

  “The man I’m supposed to be replacing? Just what’s in the file,” she answered. “Apparently, he was one of the agency’s top men, went rogue, and is now wanted on rape and murder charges. I’ve heard some office chitchat about him, but since I tend to keep to myself...” She shrugged.

  “The man has given the FBI a black eye, making fools out of us.” Trevor’s anger was palpable. A glance at Rob’s clenched jaw and fisted hands showed he shared that opinion.

  “I worked with him in New Mexico when I first started with the agency,” Trevor continued. “He served in Iraq where he earned himself a chest-full of medals. When he applied to the FBI, they accepted him without question. The man was a contradiction in terms, but got the job done—or at least we thought he did. Half the time, he looked like he’d slept in his clothes, but that was part of his persona. When these killings started, he volunteered as liaison between the FBI and Boston PD. I recommended him for that position, trusted his reports and his judgment, and almost got everyone killed. Tom Adams, the other detective who’s part of this team, saw through him right from the start. It took me a long time to believe Pierce was a traitor and a cold-blooded killer, but in the end, the proof of his guilt was undeniable. When he ran, he sealed his fate. Make no mistake, I want the Harvester or Prophet or whatever else he calls himself, but I want Pierce even more.”

  She recalled that photograph. Pierce had joined the cast of her nightmare last night, along with a number of extras from some of the more gruesome pictures she’d examined. Something about the man disturbed her, but she couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe it was because he represented everything she hated most: a traitor who preyed on women and children, the people he’d sworn to protect.

  “Do you wonder if there are others?” she asked, voicing her own fears.

  “Others?” Rob asked.

  “You know, other agents working with the Harvester? Other people in high places feeding him information. Working with the public, gathering information isn’t anything new for anarchist cults. I mean, if a war hero like Pierce can be convinced of the man’s sincerity ...”

  “I hope not, but to be on the safe side, we’ve got people looking into everyone’s background, doing a thorough search. That’s why I know you’re exactly the person I need here now. You know more about cults than any other agent in the bureau. You’ve even infiltrated one.”

  Her gut clenched. She’d seen her file, knew what was in it and what had been left out at her request. “Yes, but if you know that, you know I failed. Kelly Kirk never made it home.” Her name was on one of the cold case files Lilith kept in her desk, cases she checked on regularly. Rose Munroe, her niece who’d vanished as an infant fifteen years ago, had a file in there, too.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Munroe. From what I read, you handled yourself well under extreme circumstances. Thanks to you, one nest of snakes has been cleared out. Most importantly, I know you’re someone I can trust. You looked Satan in the face and walked away.”

  Lilith frowned. The last thing she wanted anyone to believe was that she was some kind of superwoman. They’d want too much from her, and she wouldn’t be able to live up to their expectations. Yes, she’d made it out alive, but she was broken, damaged goods, and the fear the monster would come back never left her.

  “Now, bring me up to speed on the Richardson case,” Trevor said, startling her.

  From the raised eyebrows, Rob hadn’t expected this twist in the conversation either. “Who the hell are the Richardsons?”

  “That’s the case I was researching when I got the call to come here.”

  That case had more holes in it than Swiss cheese—one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to leave Quantico.

  “Enlighten us,” Trevor said. The tone of his voice made it a command not a request.

  “Murder-kidnapping in Baltimore. Two dead and a year-old child missing. My department was contacted for possible leads on a child trafficking ring, but we haven’t found anything. Sometimes these things take years to solve. As long as we don’t have a body, we don’t give up. We work on the assumption the child is out there waiting to be rescued.”

  That belief was one of the things that had kept her working with the FBI five years ago, when she’d wanted to climb into the deepest, darkest hole she could find and hide from everyone and everything that could ever hurt her again. Knowing her niece Rose was out there waiting for her was her Holy Grail.

  “Have you got any leads?”

  “Sadly, no, but as I said, these things take time. We’ve looked through the nationwide database for cases with similar MOs, but we didn’t find any. There’s been no chatter on the black Internet sites that might handle a baby sale. The biggest problem arises when we looked into the child herself. It’s as if she’s been erased—no birth or adoption records, nothing to show she even exists. She’s a ghost.

  “What about the crime scene?”

  “I’m not a field agent,” she said defensively. “My job is to look through the evidence they give me, analyze it, and come up with a psychological profile of the crime and its perpetrator. The place was sanitized. The guy even took the garbage with him, leaving us without so much as a dirty diaper to check for DNA. If it hadn’t been for a photograph one of the forensic technicians found under the couch, and the neighbors’ insistence that the child in the picture was Savannah, I’d never have believed a child had ever been in that house. We have a witness who came home as the alleged killer-kidnapper was leaving the house, but the woman’s memory isn’t too clear.”

  “Where will you go from here?”

  “I’m confused,” she admitted. “I was under the impression the Richardson case was being passed on, and I was working for you. If that’s not the case, I want to walk through the crime scene, talk to the witness again, and dig deeper into the Richardsons themselves. I sent the photograph to Cybercrimes because the child looked familiar, but I haven’t heard anything, so I’d want to follow up on that.”

  “What if I told you I had a lead for you, one that might blow the lid off your murder-kidnapping and my Harvester case as well?”

  Lilith sat up, her heart pounding, not from fear but from excitement. If there was a chance she could bring that child home, she’d move heaven and earth to do it, and if she captured one demon in the process, she might get a lead on another. “You think the cases are connected?”

  “Maybe. This wasn’t our Harvester’s work—too messy—but I’m convinced the cult’s involved somehow.”

  “You suspect the Richardsons tried to flee the cult, and he had them killed, taking back the child? That makes sense. In all cults, children are precious.”

  “You’re closer than you think. We just have to prove it. Cybercrimes ran the photograph you sent them
through the database of kidnapped children. The Colchester children rescued in New Hampshire were in it. They’ve got a 75 percent match with two of those kids, which is why they contacted the task force. That’s huge, implying we could be looking at an unknown sibling. If she’s related to any of James Colchester’s children, this could be the break we need to find the missing members of the cult. I need you here to help me track down that child and her family.”

  “But her parents are dead.”

  “Computers don’t lie, Munroe. According to them, neither Lyle nor Lola Richardson could be the child’s biological parent.”

  “A computer’s only as good as its software and the person using it,” she countered. “The picture from the raid would be at least four months out of date. Children change quickly during their first year. Standard aging software is 86 percent accurate at best. A 75 percent match could also mean this child is one of those.”

  “Possible, but not probable. I may not know my way around computers like you do, but Child Protective Services assures me all of the Harvester’s children we rescued were placed with family. As far as I can see, the Richardsons aren’t related to any of them. That’s why I wanted you in on this. You’re a digger. I need you to keep digging until you get answers, and since I want you here to do it and I’m short-handed, you’ve got two jobs to fill.”

  Lilith smiled, feeling more confident than she had when she’d boarded that plane. “I won’t let you down.” Finding that child would go a long way toward easing her guilty conscience, and if she could deprive the cult of a young mind to warp, so much the better.

  “Where can I set up?”

  • • •

  Jacob Andrews stepped out of the terminal at Boston’s Logan Airport and hailed a cab. This was the first time he’d been on American soil in eighteen years.

  “G’day,” he said, settling into the backseat of the car.

  “You’re from Australia, I’ll bet,” said the cabby, obviously pleased with his detective skills. “I love Crocodile Dundee.”

  “I am, from the same area actually.”

  “Where to, mate?”

  Jacob laughed at the man’s attempt to make him feel at home. “Boston Park Plaza Hotel.”

  The cabby started the meter. “In town long?”

  “Just for the week.”

  “Business or pleasure?”

  “A bit of both.”

  “Well, you’ve come at a good time. The kids are back in school, but the weather’s still nice enough to get out and see things.”

  “Yes, I hope to see a few sites while I’m here. I want to see Cheers if I can. My grandfather loved that program.”

  The cabby laughed. “You got that show in Australia? Small world. You can walk there from your hotel. Just go through Boston Common, that’s the big park about a block away, and it’s across the street.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember that.”

  The driver settled into traffic, describing the points of interest as they passed them. Since it was Sunday, the traffic was light. When he pulled up in front of the hotel’s main entrance, Jacob paid the fare, handed the man a generous tip, and went inside.

  The Boston Park Plaza was one of Boston’s older hotels with an impressive lobby and the grandeur of bygone days. It took only minutes to register and take the elevator up to his top floor suite. He was used to five-star hotels, but he loved those built in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. They had character, something missing from the opulent glass and steel structures of today.

  The door opened into a living area complete with the makings of a small office on one side and a bar and mini fridge on the other. Fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit sat on the coffee table in front of the small sofa.

  “Well, I’ll be stuffed,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the empty suite. Based on the lobby, he’d expected something nice for the price, but the room was exceptional.

  The suite consisted of two bedrooms, each with a private bath, the sitting area, and a powder room. Folding doors separated the master bedroom with its king-size bed and en suite bath from the rest of the small apartment. He dropped his carry-on bag next to the dresser and tossed his backpack on the bed, removing his tablet from it.

  Reentering the sitting room, he placed the tablet on the desk and opened the mini fridge. Grabbing a can of beer, he popped the tab and took a drink. He was exhausted. The past four months had been an emotional nightmare. What he should do is get some sleep, but going to bed at three in the afternoon wouldn’t help him get acclimatized. Reaching for his mobile phone, he dialed Eloise’s number again, but as it had every other time he’d phoned, the call went straight to voicemail.

  “Mailbox full.”

  Bloody hell! He couldn’t even leave a message anymore. He ended the call, took another mouthful of beer, and picked up the television remote. He watched as the welcome screen explained all of the hotels’ amenities. Crossing to the windows, he looked out on the small, gray stone castle—what was its original purpose? Now, according the telly, the Boston Park Plaza Castle was part of the hotel used for special events like New Year’s Eve parties, banquets, and weddings. He turned back to the room and walked over to the desk.

  He stared at his phone, willing it to ring, knowing it wouldn’t. He’d been waiting for Eloise’s call for the last nine weeks, ever since she’d been a no-show on the flight he’d booked for her to Sydney. He’d contacted the detective he’d used to find his sister in the first place, but the agency had told him the man was on vacation and unavailable. He’d called the number for the Fotomat where Eloise and the Williamsons had worked, as well as the home number the detective had given him, but all he’d gotten was that bloody “I’m sorry, there’s no service for the number you have called.” A business with an out-of-service number wouldn’t be in business very long. Finally, miserable and fed up with the lack of information and response, he’d come to Boston to find her and discover for himself what had happened.

  Finishing his beer, he tossed the can into the recycling bin. He couldn’t just sit here on his thumbs waiting for the phone to ring. What he needed to do was get changed and get out of here. He had the addresses—he’d just go there and see for himself what the problem was. Whether he liked to admit it or not, there was always the possibility his uncle had discovered their plans, and God alone knew what he’d do if he had. The petty dictator didn’t take well to anyone who dared disobey him. Jacob had almost died defying him eighteen years ago. His uncle would be highly annoyed to discover that beating had ended up being the best thing that could ever have happened.

  Returning to the bedroom, he removed his suit, putting on a pair of jeans and a tan golf shirt. The loafers would have to do since he hadn’t thought to bring another pair of shoes. Leaving the suite, he went out to hail another cab. He’d thought about renting a car, but since he didn’t know his way around Boston and hadn’t driven on the right side of the road in ages, it didn’t seem practical. Once he found Eloise, he might reconsider.

  Purposely making sure not to use the colorful Aussie slang that was a big part of his vocabulary now, he gave the man the Fotomat address and sat back. Boston was a beautiful city, with an interesting mix of old buildings and modern structures, but he wasn’t in the mood to sightsee.

  “Here you are,” the cabby said, pulling up in front of what was obviously a closed Fotomat.

  Jacob frowned. Well, that would explain why he couldn’t get through when he called. Perhaps they’d changed locations. “Can you wait a second?”

  “Sure.”

  Getting out of the vehicle, he crossed to the photography studio and peered in the window. The inside of the building was empty, with only a broken chair and a newspaper on the floor to prove it had ever been occupied. There was nothing in the window to indicate the business had moved elsewhere.

  Damn! Another dead end. Could the detective have lied to him? If his uncle had discovered the truth, he could’ve convinced the PI it was in his best i
nterest to give false information and then disappear for a while.

  Returning to the cab, Jacob gave the Cambridge address he had for the Williamsons. Maybe he’d have better luck there, but his gut told him it was unlikely.

  The cab crossed the bridge over the Charles River, and Jacob caught a glimpse of the USS Constitution in the harbor. When he finally found Eloise and organized everything for their trip back to Australia, he’d take the time to see a few of Boston’s more famous sites. At the very least, he should have a look at the harbor where they’d dumped King George’s tea.

  The driver turned down a residential street in what appeared to be a middle-class neighborhood and pulled up in front of a brick bungalow.

  “Will you wait?” he asked the driver. “Let the meter run, and there’s an extra fifty in it for you if you do.”

  “Knock yourself out, Mack,” the man said. “I’ve got nowhere to go.”

  Jacob smiled. “Thanks.”

  Getting out of the cab, he examined the area, noting the signs of abandonment. It had been weeks since anyone had cut the grass, and newspapers and fliers littered the walkway. He climbed the four steps to the veranda. The geraniums in the planters on each side of the door were dried up. He rang the doorbell, hearing it sound loudly inside the house. He didn’t expect anyone would answer. Moving to the window, he peered inside, but he couldn’t see anything.

  Going down the steps, he went around back. As in the front, the grass hadn’t been cut. The strong stench and the incessant buzz of flies coming from the garbage cans indicated they hadn’t been emptied in some time.

  A reasonably new barbecue stood on the wooden deck next to a patio set, the umbrella closed. He looked inside the sliding doors. Through the open slats of the vertical blinds, he saw the table and chairs, as well as the cupboards and counters covered in small appliances. The coffeemaker appeared to have dark liquid in it, but unless he was mistaken, there was mold growing on it. The fruit in the bowl on the table had rotted. He could just imagine the smell.